Outlaw (19 page)

I saw that the valley was whole, a perfect stage streaming with brilliant colors and light that was only abstractly aware of the conflicts raging between the cliffs.

I saw that nothing could possibly threaten or present the vaguest challenge to the power flowing in, through, around, and from me. I saw that my body was only a costume to be worn.

I heard.

The song from my distant dreams. Music, riding the light with such exquisite power that I felt my every bone tremble with it. Deep tones that could not be pushed lower, high melodic strains that danced with ecstasy.

I knew.

I knew that time was an illusion because there is no future and there is no past. There is only now, and what is called the future is just another now.

I knew that my Father was perfect and that nothing imperfect could have come from that perfection, much less threaten it in any way. I was safe. Saved. Now.

I knew that I too was perfect, even as my Father was perfect, and that nothing could possibly threaten me now. There was no longer any separation between me and my Father.

Weeping with gratitude and relief, I became aware that I had dropped to my knees and was shaking as unending waves of power and peace coursed through my body. Fear was as foreign to me as the sky might be to a deep-sea fish; I was swimming in a lake of raw love, pulsing with light and ecstasy.

And within a very short time that might have been many years or only a moment, I knew what I would do.

IT TOOK ME two hours to reach the Tegalo valley, judging by the passage of the sun, which slowly dipped into the afternoon sky. But for me it felt like five minutes. Time was still strange for me, now that I had lived a lifetime in the color of that stunning world that was my own.

I know that any attempt to describe my experience on that hilltop can only be truly appreciated by those who have seen truth with their own eyes wide open, and I know that the memory of it easily fades, pulled away by the gravity of entrenched thinking and the law of this world.

Even as I rushed through the Tulim valley without regard for my safety, streaking for the shallow valley called Tegalo, where death was boldly flexing its shadowy, vacant muscle, I was still half-trapped in another vision of jungle around me.

More than green leaves and dark trunks, I saw the unfolding of all creation, welcoming me with open arms as if calling me:
Come. Come to me, come and be. Come and live
.

More than the birdcalls that I had become accustomed to over the months, I heard the song of angels. More than a path cutting into the valley of death, I ran down a street paved with love and light.

For I had touched the source of all bliss and he was my Father, who is God.

After an eternity on the hilltop, the light had faded. It had taken me a full ten minutes to reorient myself. Shaka was no longer with me, but I hadn’t expected him to be. He had nothing more to say to me. I had heard all that I must.

I knew which path to take: the one that headed east of both the Impirum and Warik villages. To the valley of bloodshed called Tegalo, where the costumes of a deceived world clung to insanity and embraced hatred.

I ran on feet that hardly felt the roots and mud beneath them. It wasn’t until I broke from the tree line onto a hillcrest overlooking the Tegalo valley that I heard the sound that stabbed my surety.

I pulled up sharply, staring up the at the grassy knoll before me, panting. A dull roar rose from the valley beyond, the sound of a monster with interminable breath determined to shake the heavens.

It was then that a small balloon of fear began to inflate deep in my belly. I knew the path that I would take, and any mother or father or wife or husband or child or woman or man might find my choice unthinkable for the pain and sorrow it promised.

For a few moments I stood there, heaving, aware of my swelling fear.

But having seen the truth, I also knew that I was not mother or wife or child or woman.

Shaka’s words came to me again like a song spun from the light that swept through my mind.

The roles you identify with are not the true you, they are only the costume you wear for a short time. The time has come to put your eyes on the
light of the world, which shines brightly. All who follow need not walk in darkness. They walk instead in that kingdom within, where there is no darkness, beyond the laws which bring suffering. This is the Way.

The fear ebbed.

I ran.

With each step the roar grew, as if it could hear me coming.

And then I crested the hill and the Tegalo valley came into my sight, spread out in all of its own feigned glory.

Far below me a massive river of black bodies flowed in a circle of writhing flesh, brightly colored with red, yellow, and white feathered headbands and body paint. Ten thousand strong from all three clans formed the Tulim tribe in that distant jungle paradise, that hole ripped out of hell, hidden where no white woman in all the world had seen it except one.

Her name was Julian Carter and she thought she was me, but I was far more than her.

I say paradise because I knew that there was great beauty behind the seething anger; light hidden by the blood.

I say hell because they were blind to both beauty and light. Death had been conquered and its law abolished, but they were its prisoners still.

Chants, low and ferocious from the throats of thousands, punctuated the din—two choruses in as much conflict as the warriors’ spears and arrows and blades. A large pyre of wood rose from the center of the circle, and heaped around it were the bodies of those already killed.

I saw immediately the method of their warfare. Rather than form two lines approaching head-to-head, they circled in a thick band from which individual warriors broke out to meet their enemies in single combat. The pace didn’t slow when a warrior was gutted by his opponent’s blade. His body was simply dragged and dumped by the piled wood, where it likely would be burned with all of the dead later, an offering to the spirits.

My heart hammered there on the hill as I stared down at the carnage. It was all so pointless. So misguided. Such insanity.

Then I saw Wilam, the husband who had claimed me for the son I would bring him. My heart surged. Such a magnificent man, spinning out from the thick band of fighters to meet a Warik warrior in the open.

Like a black stallion formed into a man, he loped toward one as strong and tall as he. The sweat on his dark skin glistened in the sun as he leaned into his gait, rushing headlong for his prey.

His opponent showed no sign of fear. Surely their hearts were pounding with terror, gripped by the certainty that one of them would lie dead within a matter of minutes.

The rest of the valley fell away from my consciousness as I focused on the imminent collision of flesh. Time slowed and I watched their precise movements.

Wilam held his spear wide like a sword in one hand; a bone-handled club with a polished gray stone head was in the other. The Warik warrior ran crouched low like a lion, bearing a long bone dagger and shield.

They did not slow or feint or duck or jump.

They collided shield against body in open field, the Warik slashing up with his dagger, Wilam spinning from the blade. And as he spun, Wilam’s cry of rage rose above the din. His extended spear cut through the air as he twisted beyond the man, spun through a full turn, and sliced back around to meet the Warik warrior from behind.

Astonished, I watched as his sharpened spearhead sliced through the man’s neck like a sword and dropped him in a heap.

For a moment Wilam stood his ground, half-crouched, muscles taut, still crying his rage, glaring in the direction of Kirutu across the field.

I had the impression that all of this was preamble to a direct confrontation between the two brothers. And it occurred to me in that moment that Kirutu would prevail.

He had drawn Wilam to his death through the law so that he could emerge as the leader who had upheld the law without compromise.

But I was now the bearer of a new law.

Wilam broke from his kill and jogged back into the thick of his men as their chants marked his victory.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa…

Two Warik warriors peeled off the main circulating body, grabbed the arms and legs of the fallen man, hauled him like a pig to the center of the valley, and dumped him among the dead.

It was absurd.

It was insane.

It was the way of all humans.

And then, as if someone had spoken to them in a single voice, the huge band of Warik warriors slowed. Stopped. Stared down-valley. A cry rose from the Impirum, who quickly pulled up and turned to look down-valley with the Warik.

The form of Sawim, shaman of the Karun tribe, could not be mistaken. He walked slowly but deliberately using a cane, standing tall. From his shoulder hung a net bag. My heart lurched.

Sawim walked into the valley as one who cannot be touched, in much the same way that Shaka had once walked in to save me under the tree. Among the Tulim, power conquered—but not at the expense of the law, and the law was administered by the will of the feared spirits.

I wanted to run then, down into the battleground where my fate awaited me. But I knew that these three men—Kirutu, Wilam, and Sawim—all had to agree with what I would propose. So I waited high upon the hill behind them, allowing my blood to run through my veins like hot light.

I spent precious seconds remembering what I had seen. Hearing again Shaka’s words and those I’d heard on the wind while my eyes were wide open. I fixed my eyes on the net bag Sawim carried so nonchalantly.

The circle had parted already, half with Kirutu, half with Wilam, both of whom had stepped away from the warriors and now stood waiting with heaving chests near the strewn bodies of the dead. I didn’t know how long they’d been in battle—long enough to satisfy Sawim.

The shaman knew precisely what he was doing. As did Kirutu. Only Wilam did not know.

My heart broke for my husband. It hardly mattered that I had been taken by him as a person might take a loaf of bread. In their eyes I was his wife, and I had come to respect him as such despite all that I knew.

And now, knowing more, I loved him. Having seen, I found it nearly impossible to harbor any resentment for any of the Tulim. They were simply doing what they knew to do.

But I wasn’t there for the Tulim. Not yet.

I was there for Stephen.

Sawim stopped before Wilam and Kirutu, and for a few long seconds silence hung over the valley. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and even from that distance I could see that he saw me. It likely gave him some pleasure.

He slowly lifted his hand and spoke in a voice for all to hear.

“Beyond the valley given to all Tulim by the Creator of all, the wam wait for us to fail our ancestors by allowing evil into our hearts,” he cried, turning slowly to address the whole crowd. “The law of our people must be fulfilled on this day or all Tulim will die at the hands of this evil. There is among us one defiled, out of the law, and this one must die.”

He waited a moment for any challenge, but none came. Then he set the net bag on the ground and reached into it with both hands.

I began to walk then. On feet that were numb as much from what I was about to do as from the run, I strode down the grassy slope, eyes fixed on that bag.

Without fanfare Sawim lifted a small, sleeping child out of the bag and lifted him over his head.

Stephen’s small naked body lay still in the shaman’s boney grasp. They’d surely sedated him. I knew that I was far more and far less than mother to him, but in that moment I wanted only to save him. It was now my sole purpose, mother or not.

Indeed, I had been drawn from American shores to this end. Of that I now had no doubt, not even a whisper of it.

“I give to you the son of the one taken by Wilam!” Sawim cried.

Dead silence. Wilam’s back was toward me, as was Kirutu’s, so I could not see their reactions. But the fact that Wilam didn’t protest was reaction enough for me. He was bound by their law and that law would now be exercised.

“By our law Wilam must take the child’s life, on the fire. In this way he will redeem himself for the grave error that he has made. Only in this way will he save himself from evil.”

The breeze lifted my hair, a warm caress of assurance. I was only a third of the way down the hill, but I did not break into a run.

“As is the law, Wilam will take the life of this child now,” Sawim said.

He stepped up to Wilam and held Stephen out. For a long beat Wilam made no move to take my son. But he would have no choice if he hoped to save his own life, much less his bid for the throne.

I knew what was going through his mind. Neither Stephen nor I could compare to his bid for power. He was destined to rule. In taking this white child’s life, he would retain his honor and his bid for power to save the Tulim from Kirutu’s rule.

He was likely thinking he would do what he must, and then, filled with rage, slaughter Kirutu before returning home to see his child grow in my womb while he ruled.

He didn’t know that I had miscarried. Kirutu could make the claim, but for now, only I truly knew. And the bid for power was now, not when they discovered that no child grew in my womb.

Wilam slowly held out his arms and Sawim placed my son in his hands. The shaman held up his hand and a runner broke from the thick swath of Warik warriors, carrying a burning torch.

I was now halfway to them and I still did not run. I was only playing my part in a grand stage play unfolding in this valley. My heart was breaking, but I felt it as if slightly apart from my body. Because I knew then that it was my costume, not the true me, who was feeling deep sorrow and pain.

My pain wasn’t necessarily bad or good. But in truth, I wasn’t my mind, you understand? I wasn’t my emotions or my body. These were only a part of my human experience confined to this life. This I had learned when Shaka had helped me see.

The runner handed the torch to Sawim, who held it high, then walked to the pyre and shoved the flame into the middle of it.

The wood caught immediately. They’d soaked it in resin.

Wilam held my son, stock-still, back still to me. Not a word came from the thousands gathered. They knew as well as he—this he must do to retain his honor.

“Cut the child’s throat and burn his body,” Sawim said.

Not until I reached them did the outer ring of warriors see me. They moved aside quickly, unsure of my presence, and I cut through them without a word, eyes fixed on Wilam as they parted. And then I was fifty paces from him.

Sixty from the blazing fire.

“Do what you must!” Sawim cried.

“No, Wilam.” I did not yell, but my voice might as well have been a slap to his ear.

He twisted his head, and I saw his face for the first time. My husband was terrified but forcing himself to show strength before his people. I saw it in his wide eyes and the slight draw of his lips.

“No,” I repeated, speaking directly to him. “You will not kill my son.”

Kirutu turned as well, and I could see the smug look of one who had achieved his goal. Had he known that I would come to save my child?

“A woman orders the prince?” Kirutu growled.

“I order no one,” I said, louder now, approaching still. “I only make clear what is already known.”

“A wam knows nothing of what is true,” Kirutu said.

The dark shaman Sawim scanned the hills, not with fear, but with interest. Looking for something. For the one who would save me.